


No, You Can't Have a Band-Aid With Robots On It

by fibonaccist, zigavon



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: ...ish, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, blossoming feelings, bombs work better than love notes apparently, incapacitated and bitchy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fibonaccist/pseuds/fibonaccist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigavon/pseuds/zigavon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Generic shoehorned hurt/comfort RP to appease our sleep-deprived fluff cravings in the deep dark hours, or: "YOU GETTING HURT MAKES ME ANGRY, THEREFORE YOU DO IT ON PURPOSE no dont look at me like that"</p><p>As before, Zig is ever the Avon to my Blake. :3</p>
            </blockquote>





	No, You Can't Have a Band-Aid With Robots On It

**Author's Note:**

> warning for brief allusion to mind-controlled fake rape memories left in child brains. we hate the Federation a lot.

The banter Avon awakened to was probably infuriating. Leave it to Roj Blake to say it hadn't been a total loss. Half the crew sitting in medical, varying degrees of incapacitated - they still weren't sure if Vila was only pretending to be knocked unconscious or not, but his arm was still bent funny - and the able-bodied, of course, seemed just as faithful as they'd been before the bomb nearly took the ground team along with its pound of planetary flesh.

Gan, having manned the teleportation console for that drop and therefore being unfamiliar with the details, busied himself with Vila, preparing to set the arm and monitor him afterwards. After having brought their injured to the med bay and helping Gan tend to the others, Cally had volunteered watch on the command deck while the Liberator escaped to lick its collective wounds in hiding.

Of course, Blake was oblivious to another near-death experience, cheered instead by the acquisition of a significant new group of allies, the discussion of whom seemed lively over the care of Jenna's injured leg.

Avon didn't know he'd been seen to immediately. Blake's quiet urgency when they'd taken in their wounded wasn't questioned, never had been, and Avon was not one to play at passing out for the sake of shirking anyway. It was Blake who had carried him in, set and trussed his arm and collarbone, brooded over him until Jenna came to first and managed to distract him.

They were laughing over something else now, across the room, and Blake was stooping to adjust her bed to let her sit up further, was cradling her under the knees and shoulders to help her sit more comfortably. Perhaps she was clinging a few seconds longer than she ought to, but perhaps it was Avon's imagination, seeing as how Blake didn't seem to have one.

 

The voices in the room, being something like atmospheric background noise, became clearer, and unfortunately, recognizable as consciousness returned. If it wasn't for whatever sedative or painkiller he had been jabbed with, Avon wouldn't have been able to tolerate the sound of Blake's laughter in particular. 

His eyes had been open and receiving information for longer than he had realized. Long enough to see Jenna and the aforementioned dimwit having a laugh and a rightly good time from the look of it, while members of the crew were still incapacitated. 

There was... something though. Something he was trying to remember through his mind's current hazy state. What _had_ happened, exactly, on the planet's surface? Something about... explosives being detonated, or- Blake trying to push him out of the way? Something...

Avon rolled his eyes and tried remarkably well to sit up. It was of no use to remember at the moment. Or to sit up properly.

 

It was Gan who took note of the rustling, and though he usually knew better, he came to check anyway. Vila being asleep was boring, for one thing.

"Steady, Avon. Easy. Better to stay down a while after how you came in looking like, though you're a sight better now, at least. I'll get you some water, eh?"

But Blake was already at the sinks, filling a pair of cups. The merriment across the way had died down the moment Gan had uttered the name, and though Jenna's hand had lingered at Blake's arm when he stood, she hadn't tried to keep him. Her expression fell sombre as she watched Avon, but without resentment - only a tinge of sadness.

"You gave us a scare," came the gruffly scolding tone as Gan bowed out of the way and took the second cup for Jenna. Not even a hello, or a hint of worry. Blake kept his personal worries out of sight... or he tried to, at any rate. He sat at the bedside, and the remaining cup was held out, plainly in reach of Avon's functional arm, almost as a challenge. "What's the matter, Avon? Staying alive too difficult for you?"

 

Gan was easily dismissed by a simple glare. By now, at least, he should have known better. But, that was Gan. Avon didn't think him _completely_ useless, as the others had probably thought. Daft, perhaps. But his concern for the crew was largely lost on this particular member.

"I will remember to warn you the next time I am about to get blown to pieces," he replied while glancing over at Vila and lazily waving the cup in Blake's hand away. A just as underwhelming reply, but given the circumstances, it was better than nothing at all. "And I will ask you the same question the _next time_ you lead us into certain death."

 

" _I_ did nothing of the sort, this time. In fact, I distinctly remember warning you to watch your step after we left the compound and disposed of our Federation friends. Usually, you're the more wary of us."

And at that, Blake _did_ sound worried. The dark and troubled eyes Jenna had been made to tolerate until a minute ago simply bored through Avon now, visibly attempting to discern. Blake caught the waving hand by the wrist and forcibly closed Avon's stubborn fingers around the cup, daring him to drop it on himself for the sake of obstinacy, before standing and turning back toward Jenna's bed, though he didn't yet leave.

"Not like you to get lost in thought so thoroughly. Keep your head next time. As you often like to tell us, we need you." He was careful to keep individual reference out of it, lest he lose his own head.

 

"You very well may have, but remote explosives can be unpredictable. Especially those embedded in the ground. Even if the Federation guards hadn't detonated them by remote, they might have gone off anyway from the simple vibration of our movement," he said as if reciting from a manual, at a loss for anywhere to set the cup. "We had to go to that section, anyway, if you recall. It was the clearest option for the teleport to receive properly."

Avon's tone was calm. Not a single one of them was in any position to be angry with one another - even if he felt otherwise, internally. He sunk back into the bed, taking a sip of water. 

"I kept my head, Blake."

 

He didn't interrupt. It wasn't his place. Instead, he listened, champing absently at a stray knuckle with his back still turned and his eyes to the floor. He knew the dangers of remote explosives, but it would be a petty argument at best, and for once, he found himself without the mental energy to comply. Every other decision was a risk, that was simply how it was, but every other risk threatened to steal away these few friends, steal away--

For a moment, he didn't reply. And when he did, he still didn't turn, because at least Jenna and Gan wouldn't call attention to his suddenly pained expression. And his voice remained level, didn't betray him.

"Glad of that, at least. Your head's a terrible thing to waste."

It was probably the closest thing to a compliment Avon had ever got from him.

 

The silence consumed the room. Gan looked as if he was about to say something, before his concentration was lost when his friend began to stir and moan briefly. Vila might have been exaggerating, as he was known to do, but he'd suffered with the rest of them. They would make an allowance for it, this time. And several times after that. He was a necessary annoyance, as Avon liked to justify it.

Blake spoke, curing the room's hush. Perhaps he felt like he had to.

Avon knew that they needed him for what he could do, just as they needed Vila and his particular set of skills. There was never a doubt. 

"That is a peculiar way of putting it."

 

"Isn't it just."

The deadpan in Blake's tone didn't even allow that to be a question, however rhetorical. He turned again, not to anyone's bedside but to retrieve a roll of thermal bandaging from one of the wall repositories. He didn't respond when Jenna spoke up, despite the dread beginning to weigh as she did.

"Gan, help me to my room. It's got too warm in here."

"You can't stand like that! I'll get Zen to adjust--"

"That isn't what I meant. Come on, I can make it if you help."

"Hey. Take me too," came a weak and groggy demand from Vila's bed. "The least comfortable bed in a house is the one you get told to stay in, right?"

Blake glanced over his shoulder to retort, but crumbled after a helpless look from Gan, Jenna already hanging by an arm over his stooped shoulders. A glance in the other direction revealed to Avon the disquiet still pacing behind his eyes before he shook his head and crossed to heave Vila by the good arm to his side in a similar fashion to Gan, hooking the bandage roll over his wrist and grabbing for a few more pain suppressants.

"Come on, then," he sighed. "Spoilt lot, you are. And you'll have to wait your turn," he directed at Avon with a half-hearted scowl, "until I'm back for you." With that, he and Gan took their cargo carefully out of the room, Vila's complaints trailing behind them.

 

"It's not my legs that are injured," he muttered after Blake was halfway out the door with Vila. He thought that he could probably manage to walk back to his room if he tried, but the sedative was still lingering enough for him to know better.

The room was dead quiet, once more, save for the occasional sound from the medi-computer. He thought it more boring than restful, since there was nothing for him to occupy himself with in the meantime. Something in him hoped that Blake _would_ be back, sooner, rather than later. At least that much was promised, and would make the often treasured silence less deafening.

 

After deciding that Vila's request for a bedtime story was a joke, being scolded for his previously harsh tones by both Jenna and Gan (accentuated by Meaningful Glares™ from the former) when checking in on them, and being lectured on the foolhardiness of throwing oneself heroically about the place to keep the rest alive when checking on Cally and Zen, Blake eventually made his way back to medical, dragging one of his self-imposed brood-clouds in his wake.

He didn't speak at first, only giving a perfunctory nod in Avon's direction and busying himself with what purported to be an adrenaline/hydrator mixture, once the bulk of the crew was no longer around to watch him slump a little. When he finally turned back to Avon, leaning against the counter, he seemed in active attempt to shoo his cloud away.

"It's not _that_ peculiar, is it?" he wondered aloud with a half-smile. "I mean, your head's where you live, if you want to be existential about it."

 

He took his time, didn't he. It might have only been a few moments since he carried Vila out of the medical wing and made his rounds, but it seemed much longer - agonizingly so.

"Coming from you, perhaps not." It wasn't necessarily meant as an insult, as indicated by a half-smile, visible or not, since he hadn't turned to face Blake upon his entrance.

"I would rather not discuss existentialism, but you have a fair point. I cannot argue with you," he continued, leaning to turn his head to look at Blake, properly as he could from the bed. "I'd be lost without it."

 

That earned a chuckle, which Blake unsuccessfully tried to hide behind the rim of his glass. On top of that, "You and I both" was what fell out by mistake, rather than the clever reply he'd meant to spin. That drained the remaining humour from his expression.

Instead of dwelling on embarrassment, however, Blake downed the rest of his concoction within two or three gulps and swiped a dermal regenerator from a repository. Pulling a chair to Avon's bedside, he held it up and sat ready.

"Shall I, or do you want out of here, too?"

 

Avon's eyes widened - was just as surprised by Blake's remark as Blake himself was. Of course he would be - everyone would. But the way it tumbled forth was... The well-played discomfiture hadn't gone unnoticed.

"May as well get on with it," he replied, after an indecisive sigh.

 

"Right." Still chagrined, Blake reached demurely for Avon's good arm and began working at what wounds he could find under and around the tattered sleeve, a massive turn of attitude from the ease and confidence with which he'd handled Jenna and even Vila earlier. One not privy to his train of thought, however, would mistake the caution in his movements for reluctance.

"I'm sorry," he eventually murmured, "for not doing a distance check before sending us over that patch. I should have known better." He reached toward Avon's face but retracted his hands, unsure if that was welcome. He then floundered slightly with the regenerator, wondering whether or not he should attempt to look under the faint streaks of blood and dirt staining the fabric over Avon's torso.

Everything seemed a surefire trespass, and the uncertainty was apparent when he turned clouded eyes upward to meet Avon's. "May I?"

 

Managing a group in an emergency situation wasn't the easiest task, and Avon understood that. Though, someone hailing themselves as a leader should know to preform certain checks to provide a clear escape route. Avon nodded in agreement, shifting his eyes to look at the leader in question - and his head slightly to the side to avoid his retracted hands. "I hope you have told the others the same. They probably need to hear it more than I do."

He met Blake's eyes. Through whatever had been troubling him in the last hours since fleeing the site of the mission, they still shone like twin stars. Avon blinked, finally. "I am in no position to stop you."

 

"Of course I did," he replied with a note of irritation, "only to be told that protecting the lot of you is a bad move." Well, perhaps not exactly those words, but it was what he took from _'Don't jump in the blast zone like that.'_

Absently, he took Avon's hand again, realised his error, dropped it, and let himself be trapped in the steely gaze for a moment. Finally, "You're not, but you can always say no. I shouldn't like to rob you of your agency."

He reached again, though, and while still tentatively, the gentle direction of his fingers under Avon's chin dispelled the illusion of reluctance from before. Different to his treatment of the arm, Blake brushed the fringe of hair aside and pressed the regenerator to a forehead scrape with something very much like reverence, if not exactly so. And in his concentration, his expression softened, could possibly be mistaken for adoration - or at least caring, on a personal level.

 

It was a natural reaction, the way he tightened his fingers around Blake's hand for the fractional moment. Perhaps it was in the interest of pre-programmed self defense. If he had his strength about him, it was a good angle to break the wrist. Not that he was being threatened, but he was always on guard. 

Or, perhaps, it was a subconscious reaction with other intents. He kept his eyes on him, then closing them lightly when the regenerator was placed to his forehead. "It would be in my best interest if you would proceed. My head will be useless if the rest of me is bleeding to death." He smiled.

 

Blake froze with his fettered hand. Not with fear or shock, and he was good enough to mute his surprise, but mostly to keep from wrenching Avon's hand in a bad direction. He went on calmly enough when he was released, though his ministrations stilled for a moment when Avon's eyes closed. It was a moment in which he could study that face with impunity, and he took that one advantage... and then beyond his notice, he was smiling too.

"Not to death, no. I made sure of that when I--" No, those words would perhaps be alarming. "When I took you here," he chose instead, carefully unstrapping Avon's tunic to treat beneath it, large hands still cautious.

And with eyes turned down (presumably to his task), in a tone one could almost construe as timid, he confessed, "Be just as lost without the whole of you."

 

His eyes opened once the pulsing sensation from the regenerator ceased. _"How thoughtful,"_ he thought to himself, allowing sentiment to get a hold of him. 

He shifted slightly to watch Blake's hands work. The time between touches of his hands, even fractions of seconds, becoming suddenly agonizing. His breath hitched once, but there were otherwise no visible signs until he froze when Blake spoke again. 

Avon thought, perhaps, it was all in his head - a side effect from the prescribed drugs, but he knew better. They were the mild sort - not the type that Vila would prefer. 

A number of reactionary replies ran across his mind, before he could catch himself saying, "I know."

 

It wasn't clear whether Blake deliberately chose to misunderstand, or if he was really that thick; he shook his head and swallowed, his fingertips resting just under Avon's sternum as if alarmed by the sudden stillness. "I wasn't referring to the crew being lost," he clarified quietly, gaze and concentration still downcast.

He didn't speak again for a time, but at least took Avon's earlier advice to heart, not asking permission before sliding a hand underneath the prone man once the front of his torso had been cared for and propping him forward to sit upright. The rest of Avon's upperwear was gently pulled away, and Blake worked with the regenerator while using his other arm to brace Avon and his collarbone in place.

Remaining dregs of lost memory and impulse from Federation-sanctioned suppression did wonders for one's self control, but as he moved the device, Blake found himself succumbing to at least one small desire, if nothing else: he rested one cheek, lightly and only briefly, against a sharp shoulder blade, absently following the regenerator's progress with half-closed eyes.

"I'll understand if you'd prefer your knees and shins left alone," he intoned after a short while, easing Avon back onto the bed and setting aside the regenerator. The tentative manner of before was now replaced with reluctance, albeit for a completely different reason. "I didn't see blood on your trousers while I carried you."

 

His eyes cast downward in turn, mentally tracing the patterns of the floor's design. Avon didn't know which to think - Blake being typically thick, or if he was aiming to drag it out around the galaxy and back. He wasn't in the mood for a game, though. "I understood you the first time," he said quietly, still watching the floor.

Even with the pain of being moved upright and what followed to make the rehabilitation process easier, and - _was that his face resting on his back_ \- his distracted mind couldn't think of anything else to add. Between the two of them, _something,_ whatever it was that they were both trying to convey, should have been understood, in a way.

A quiet amusement came about him. "If you wish to undertake it, I will not disagree if you think it necessary. Otherwise, I'm sure that the worst of it has been attended to."

 

Without the device in hand, he fidgeted almost frantically, finally settling for the trusty vice of a knuckle at his teeth. It was beginning to dawn on him. And finally, it was a small smile he offered around his finger, wistful and faint and seeking acceptance for something he wasn't entirely aware of.

"You're disturbingly agreeable with sedatives in you. I'm not quite sure what to do with that."

 

"They have largely gone. It would take more than that to impair my thoughts, anyway." Or maybe it was the near-mortal blow that brought out a shred of humanity to some degree. The foul taste of unease lingered, ready and waiting, as he chose his next words.

"Whatever you _want_ to do with it."

 

Blake raised a brow. He then changed his mind and raised both of them.

"I take it back. That you identify being agreeable with your thoughts being impaired is..." He frowned, though whatever the upset, it wasn't directed at Avon. "...disturbing on a surprisingly personal level." He fell quiet again for a moment, tamping down a lash of internal rage meant for the Federation. This was no place, nor time, for that train of thought or the livid tirade that would surely follow it. Gradually, the smile returned.

"What I want, eh?" If he was misinterpreting, if he was _wrong_... he took the chance anyway, reaching to slide one hand, palm-up, underneath Avon's pair, and spoke with oddly hesitant humour. "I doubt you're in any condition for what I want to do. Aside from staying alive, of course. For... for me."

 

For himself, first and foremost. Of course.

As a grin and politely stifled titter faded into a contemplative smile, a hand moved to Blake's wrist. "Perhaps not, no. I wouldn't be at my best, if I may be so inclined to say."

As distracted as he could have been, though, the curiosity would enrage him if he didn't pursue the obvious. "How do you find that disturbing _on a personal level?_ " he asked, unaware of the man's quiet fire.

 

His arm stayed still, willingly incarcerated and left to Avon's whim, but the question brought a stormy reflex: his hand curled into a white-knuckled boulder of a fist, a beast of war in and of itself held at bay only by Avon's grip. His frown returned, twisted into a black scowl, and his deep steadying breath wasn't steady at all.

"Mindless and violated..." he spat, and paused, pulling himself together. His tone levelled well enough, but thunder pealed beneath it, warning of Blake's particular brand of lightning. "Impaired acquiescence being a favoured tool of the Federation, is how. To rob someone of their free will, their memories, their life and everyone in it, and _programme_ them to accept whatever slop they're fed when it's gone, or... or..."

He sounded as if he was about to choke on bile or his own rage, whichever roiled up first. His other hand was fisting now as well, the paled and taut back of his hand pressed against his upper lip to muffle another breath.

"Or children," he continued, his words dangerously careful, "injected with imaginary traumas to play puppets and acquiesce to its whim anyway. Did the Federation even grant the mercy of withdrawing those memories when they were done using them against me? When they finish using other people for other whims? Or is that yet another way to harvest husks for their mutoids?"

 

"Mutoids are prisoners with debts owed to the Federation. They pay it back by becoming mindless servants," he said, trying to add some kind of assurance. "Otherwise, I am unsure of what becomes of their playthings after they are discarded." The thought of the children being used in such a manner even made _him_ uneasy. 

He placed a hand atop Blake's fist, attempting to uncurl the larger fingers to intertwine his own, as if it was something he did regularly. "I didn't have the pleasure of being subjected to their manipulations after my arrest. Their judgement on my case was passed with no trial."

 

The fist opened obligingly, apparently without Blake's notice, but the fingers stretched tensely, a spring trap waiting to snap shut again, or malfunction and fly at some deserving throat.

"You wouldn't know, would you, unless you were presented with some disruptive trigger?" was Blake's bitter reply. But even as he said it, he knew Avon was beyond the reach of conditioning, and never had he been more grateful to be running with such an endearingly self-serving bastard. The thought brought a wry smile, and the hand Avon had coaxed open relaxed significantly.

"If you ever concede, if you ever say yes to me for any reason," he said solemnly, "I need you to know you're doing so. That..." Another moment of hesitation. The fingers of his captured hand curled in to cover Avon's, almost protectively. "That's one of the quieter reasons I fight."

 

Avon had spent many years of his younger life reluctantly caught up in personal vendettas, seeing little potential in life otherwise. It was because of this, and enough formal training in the Federation's ways, that he was able to slip under the radar of mental conditioning. His brain was too valuable to not only him, but the small handful of people that needed the same service that he was able to provide.

It wasn't the same treatment as a budding psychostrategist might receive in their formative years, it was something quieter, and to do with _who_ he was, rather than _what._ He knew of no such disruptive triggers in his psyche, and if there was one implanted, it had never taken him under. They would have had to have a perfect job of it for him not to remember. 

After an eerily long moment of silence on his behalf, partially coming to terms with just how badly _they_ had gotten to Blake in the end, and partially searching his memory for signs of evidence of tampering, he nodded slowly in understanding, still clutching Blake's hand. 

His expression was that of thoughtful searching, an appalling calmness in his consideration. The pain in his arm resonated throughout his bones.

With that in mind, and the thought that they could all die tomorrow, with another carefully laid out strategical blunder, there was nothing left to lose. There never was.

"Yes, Blake."

 

Blake watched him for a long moment, still studying, still learning him - and still unaware of how well they already knew each other. Of anything, though, he knew better than to take words for granted, or even at face value. Not from Avon. This time, at least, he knew them as a gift, and not a fabled Trojan Horse either, at least not in any way he knew of.

The proffered grin of acceptance was cautious, but sincere and open nonetheless.

"Well, I don't know what you're agreeing to just yet, but we can discuss it when you've recovered." With that in a tone of finality, he stood and fussed over Avon a bit more, tossing the ruined shirt and tunic to the counter and pulling a space blanket from the nearby repository to replace them with. A new sedative/pain suppressant disc was prepared and set gently over Avon's wrapped clavicle, the previous disc removed in the same swipe.

And, with ambiguous expression, Blake pressed his lips to Avon's forehead in a diffident kiss before straightening again and backing toward the door.

"I'll check in again before my watch begins," he murmured, and vanished all too neatly.


End file.
